


Gather the Splinters

by tortuosity



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Changing Tenses, F/F, Flashbacks, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 09:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20338036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortuosity/pseuds/tortuosity
Summary: For the prompt: "Isabela takes to the seas again after the chantry explosion. Hawke stays behind."





	Gather the Splinters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acrosspontneuf (FangedAngel)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangedAngel/gifts).

The wind stings her face. Born in the Frostbacks, it blows fast and frigid toward the northeast. Not too turbulent, fills the sails, takes her away from Kirkwall. It takes her away from the fighting, the mages and templars, the smoke still curling from the ruins of the chantry. It’s perfect. 

Isabela never expected she would do this alone.

  


_“You said you would leave with me. The ship’s right there in the harbor,” Isabela pleaded, grasping at straws, fading scraps of hope._

_“Did you somehow miss what happened?” Hawke’s voice came hard, cold, foreign. “The chantry’s gone, Meredith and Elthina are dead, the city’s falling apart. You really think I can just run away from this?”_

  


It’s been almost seven years since she’s felt the ocean part before her. The air feels cleaner the farther from Kirkwall she sails, like the last remnants of the Undercity’s chokedamp can finally vacate her lungs. She breathes deep, saltwater and oiled wood purifying her from the inside out, her exhale shaky as she fights to maintain control. Hold the wheel, calm and steady. Endure. She tries to focus on the roar of the sea against the hull.

  


_“You can’t fix this. No one can fix this! Let this fucking city burn. Please come with me. Please.”_

_Isabela didn’t want to beg, but Hawke wasn’t listening. Instead, she turned away, Meredith’s blood still smeared across her armor. Kirkwall had taken everything from Hawke, and now it would take her, too—one more sacrifice for its ravenous maw._

_“I can’t. I’m sorry.” Stone-faced, empty. She was the Champion of Kirkwall now, not Marian Hawke._

_It wasn’t only Hawke who had denied Isabela’s offer. Their friends all had excuses. Varric, Merrill, and Aveline wanted to stay in Kirkwall to make repairs to their communities. Fenris gave her no reason, just a shake of his head. And Anders, Anders was already gone when she went to find him, a guilty conscience sending him fleeing into the Vinmarks._

  


Fuck them, she thinks, senseless anger overtaking her, leaving her hands white-knuckled against the wheel’s blunted spokes. She doesn’t need them. She never needed them. She is the lone wolf, the heartless raider. It was a mistake to pretend otherwise.

“Hands to man the topsail!” she calls, forcing all her rage into the shout to obliterate any wavering, any weakness. The order is echoed by her first mate, then again by her boatswain, and a small herd of sailors scurries toward the front of the ship. The topsail flutters and shakes in the wind as they haul it aloft.

  


_“Why do you always have to be the responsible one?”_

_Isabela thought of all the promises they made, all the dreams of a life beyond Kirkwall she had entertained in private moments. They slipped through her fingers like grains of sand. Childish things. Stupid things._

_“And why are you never the responsible one?” Hawke retorted, and she looked so tired._

  


With all the sails set, they will be in Ostwick by evening if the wind holds. She doesn’t know where she’ll go after that—planning ahead has never been her strong suit. Maybe to Estwatch, or maybe up to Llomerryn. It doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s back to square one, regardless of destination. Piracy, drinking, fucking strangers. Like the last six years had never happened. It should feel comfortable. It should feel familiar. She is beholden to no one, just like she’s always claimed to want. Irresponsible.

  


_“The ship is ready. I’m leaving,” Isabela said. “Last chance, Hawke.”_

_She wanted Hawke to understand. To leave with her, or even to ask her to stay. Something, anything. Hawke had all of Isabela in her hands: body, heart, soul. The choice was hers._

_And Hawke chose to wash her hands of it, everything they had shared._

_“I can’t,” Hawke repeated, like if she said it enough times, Isabela would believe it._

  


The wind cuts into her, freezing lacerations, and she blames it for the tears in her eyes, angrily wiping them away with the back of her hand. She’ll pick up the pieces, the same way she has a thousand times before. Life has always tried to shatter her. This is nothing new. And yet, she can’t help but wonder how many shards of herself she left behind in that blighted city. 

Her ship is beautiful, everything she ever wanted after Siren’s Call smashed against the Wounded Coast. Wresting it from Castillon’s dead hands was one of the proudest moments of her life. She and Hawke cleaned it up, tore out every remnant of its previous owner. Isabela even gave it a new name.

Osprey.

  


_“Goodbye.”_


End file.
